


Unspoken

by Milesine



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milesine/pseuds/Milesine
Summary: An unexpected sight greets Morrigan in the library.





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elfrootelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfrootelf/gifts).



> This was written for my friend **Tyrannible** as a birthday gift.   
> The beautiful Adrienne Lavellan belongs to them and so does the story this work was inspired from. **Tolerance Isn't What I'd Call It** is a lovely story, please give it a read.

Morrigan took a step to the right with an annoyed scowl as an agent of the Inquisition ran past her and towards the rookery.

This was why the now Arcane Advisor only ever breezed through the library. Its endless hustle and bustle was more than she could handle – too crowded, too busy, too _much_. She would have avoided this floor altogether to favor the quietness of her own room, were it not for the books. The ever-growing resources of the Inquisition were impressive, even she could not pretend otherwise. Lined up on these shelves were goldmines of knowledge.

To limit her comings and goings to the library, Morrigan had taken to bringing back to her private quarters two to five books all at once. She was a fast reader though, and quite a few books turned out to be too uninteresting to even be described as distracting; the time to return the borrowed works would always come. And it had.

Morrigan walked among the massive bookcases, three thick, hard-covered books in her hands. Three unsatisfying _, truly disappointing_ books about Tevinter she could not wait to get rid of. Here was to hoping her next pick would not be such a waste of time.

Not paying attention to the mages hurrying around the library like ants gathering breadcrumbs, Morrigan stopped in front of the one bookcase she was looking for; the words _History of Thedas_ were carved into the wood and painted in white at the top.

As she leaned forward, a timid ray of sunshine brushed her ankle. Morrigan turned to face the wide window on her left. Her hand came to a sudden halt – _this_ was not the sight she expected to behold.

Here, at the nearby table, was a familiar figure.

Here, basking in the light, was the Inquisitor Adrienne Lavellan.

Her breath was deep and steady, her eyes closed. Asleep. The Inquisitor was asleep, her cheek pressed against the yellowing page of an old book, a strand of black and curly hair wrapped around her forefinger. The sunlight, gold and warm, seemed to pour from the window to cradle her.

Morrigan scoffed at the sight. There was no doubt Adrienne would wake up with a red mark across her skin, remnant of the rough edge of the book turned into a makeshift pillow.

This was not out of character for the Inquisitor, Morrigan herself was well-acquainted with her naïve disregard of the etiquette. Adrienne did not have the presence one would expect from a leader of her stature. She was not as assertive, not as convincing, and she did not try to be. No, Adrienne wore leaves in her disheveled hair; sat on rails in the gardens of Skyhold; climbed on stacked boxes to reach the upper shelf; fell asleep in noisy libraries before sunset.

Morrigan brought her books closer to her stomach with a frown. Not out of character, but with a slight, yet tangible, difference. There was something new, something soft, to the Inquisitor's expression. The worried wrinkle on her forehead was gone; so were her dark circles.

Fast asleep and shielded by the sun, Adrienne looked at peace.

How many months had it been since she last did?

A dull ache echoed through Morrigan's chest. Ten years ago, there had been another woman whose shoulders were burdened with a weight as unfathomable as the fate of the world. A woman Morrigan had come to respect as a leader, then to cherish as a friend. A woman she and others had helped, supported and loved till the end of the Fifth Blight.

What about Adrienne? What about her companions?

They were skilled, they were efficient, but were they her _friends_? Morrigan did not need to skim through her memories: the answer was no. Cassandra was the only one Adrienne appreciated well enough, but their interactions were tense and uncomfortable nonetheless.

 

Solitude meant safety to the witch of the Wilds. Not to Adrienne – Herald of Andraste and Inquisitor were heavy titles to carry alone.

Morrigan studied Adrienne's unusually quiet face a little longer, then closed her eyes and breathed in. _Very well._ Just for this one time, she would make an exception.

She put her books down on the table to free her hands and untie the dark red cloak draped over her shoulders. The day was nearly over and the light protecting Adrienne from the cool air of the evening would soon vanish. Morrigan looked above her shoulder one last time: no one was watching in their direction.

She swiftly placed her cloak over Adrienne's shoulders.

It was a simple gesture. One that would tell Adrienne, _"You are not alone"_.

As simple as it was though, Morrigan did not want to explain it. It would have to remain a secret, a secret the wooden bookcases of the library were entrusted to keep.  

The cloak itself would not betray her. Hundreds of these were distributed by the Inquisition to provide refugees and agents an additional layer against the stinging winds of the Frostback Mountains. Still – were Adrienne to inquire about it, Morrigan would keep the truth to herself.

Because as simple as it was, Morrigan could not explain this gesture yet.  

It was too soon, too soon for her to understand. Too soon for her to reflect on her feelings. Too soon for her to confess, _"The cloak was mine"._

One day, though. One day, she would.


End file.
